


The Nature of Affinity

by StarlightAsteria



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Actor!AU, Actor!Elizabeth, Actor!James, Agent!Jack, Elizabeth is in a bit of a pickle, Jack is drunk, James is a gentleman, Will is an Idiot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 21:21:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9845321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAsteria/pseuds/StarlightAsteria
Summary: When Jack tells her she's got the female lead in Georgiana Fitzgerald's new film and that she's going to be starring opposite the very famous James Norrington - well -She'll deny it it her dying day, but she faints.And then there's the not so small fact that she's a virgin. Who has to do two sex scenes for this. Oops?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Um, so yes - was rewatching bits of the TV show Smash the other day, and thought, wouldn't a modern Actor/Choreographer AU centred around James Norrington and Elizabeth Swann be an interesting idea - so, here we go. 
> 
> I've also been wanting to get back into writing for my other James/Elizabeth story, and thought this might be a good way to harness the muse again. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Part One

_in which Will is an idiot, Elizabeth makes a phone call, Jack does his job, James makes breakfast and Dan is shit at gambling_

 

* * *

 

 

Her co-star picks up on the first ring, despite the fact that it’s one o’clock in the morning on a September Tuesday. “Elizabeth?”

 

“James - oh, thank God.” She collapses onto a park bench, sniffling. 

 

“What’s happened?” He sounds more awake now, and she can picture him rubbing his mouth anxiously.

 

“I - ” She bursts into tears. 

 

“Where are you? _Elizabeth?”_

 

“Green Park,” she chokes out. 

 

“I’m on my way.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

She’s done a few dramas, a couple of indie films that have garnered really good reviews, but this is her first big budget thing. With James Norrington as her co-star, the man who has the whole industry eating out of the palm of his hand. This is a chance to go back to her ballet roots as well as playing the female lead in an intricate, angsty, passionate drama set in the high-stakes world of professional ballet, directed by the legendary, mildly terrifying, Georgiana Fitzgerald. 

 

She said yes immediately, of course.

 

 

* * *

 

 

James finds her leaning against the railings of the Piccadilly entrance to Green Park, takes one look at her, her tawny blonde hair flattened against her skull by the rain, huddled in a green peacoat like a drowned puppy and pulls her into his arms. “Shhh,” he soothes gently. She says nothing, melting against him in relief. 

 

The drive back to his house, a very smart Georgian affair just off Grosvenor Square, is silent, but he can feel her shaking in his arms, and it is with relief that James bundles his co-star out of the car with his driver’s help. 

 

He sets her down in an armchair in the library, and kneels at her feet. She stares blankly beyond him at the logs in the fireplace. “Elizabeth,” he takes her dainty little hands in his much larger ones. Her fingers curl around his own as he says her name. “I’m just going to fetch you some blankets and some hot chocolate, and you can tell me what happened, alright?”

 

“Thank you,” she smiles wanly in reply.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Will cheated on me,” she says eventually, having stripped out of her wet clothing and now wrapped in one of James’ thick white wool-cashmere blend blankets, curled up, her hands clutching her mug of chocolate, a tiny bit of whipped cream on her nose. 

 

“Pardon?” He splutters, looking across at her. Curled up in the leather armchair, she looks infinitely small. Infinitely delicate, but it’s her eyes that trouble him the most. They are hollow, flat, drained utterly of light. She looks so young, and he’s abruptly reminded of their age difference - eight years; she’s only twenty-two to his positively ancient thirty. 

 

“Jack texted me - ” Jack Sparrow is her agent, James remembers. A bit eccentric for his taste, and how he gets his job done when he appears perpetually in his cups is a mystery to James, but there’s no denying he’s one of the best in the business. “ - at about eight, saying he’d seen Will go into _Tortuga._ And then when I get home, he’s - _going_ at it - with - I don’t know - and - ” she’s snarling the words, and James’s heart breaks for her.

 

“Oh, darling,” he murmurs. 

 

“The girl leaves, and we have a blazing row, and then he kicks me out,” she continues sombrely, in a voice so brittle that James wants to throttle Will for hurting her like this ( _he doesn’t examine this urge too closely - he knows he won’t like what he finds)._

 

“ _He_ kicked you out?”

 

“As he so kindly pointed out,” she scoffs, “the flat lease is in his name. The only property that’s mine is Papa’s old house in Port Royal, and that’s not exactly in London, is it? And no good hotel accepts guests past midnight without a prior reservation.” She laughs hollowly, and looks away, embarrassed. 

 

“You are more than welcome here, Elizabeth, for as long as you need,” James replies gently. In any other situation he would have teased her about being shy about asking him something _(it is, he’s discovered, the easiest way of riling her up, of forcing her to treat him like an equal instead of the wide-eyed hero-worship he gets from the majority of younger actors, and is something he’s become quite fond of doing)_ but this is something that is still far too raw, and so he answers the question she’s too embarrassed to ask.

 

And it is true - she is welcome at his house for as long as she desires.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As he lies in bed that night _(Elizabeth safely ensconced in a guest bedroom down the hall)_ he considers with a short laugh that at least they haven’t started filming the two sex scenes yet; at this point he can still pretend he’s simply being a good friend, instead of living with the co-star he has to pretend to make love to, and that he is ridiculously attracted to. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Their call times aren’t until ten the next morning, so James wanders around his kitchen in a leisurely manner, sipping his tea - Earl Grey, two slices of lemon, no milk or sugar - as he sets the kitchen table and keeps an eye on the crab and chive omelette he favours when he has time to cook in the mornings, and chops up assorted fruits and makes a start on the bacon. 

 

He hums along to the Tchaikovsky playing on the radio and waits for Elizabeth to appear. 

 

He’s not disappointed when she does.

 

In contrast to his wearing what passes for his casual wear - white shirt, beige chinos and leather loafers - she has wrapped his cashmere blankets firmly around her body so only her head is visible. The ends trail across the tiles and he laughs.

 

She’s never presented a more enchanting picture, all bundled up like that, still in the loose grey pyjamas he offered her the previous night, and he passes her a mug of steaming tea with a grin. 

 

“Thanks,” she says quietly, taking a sip.

 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, considering her as he serves their food and gestures for her to sit and begin eating.

 

“Slightly better, thanks.”

 

“As I said last night, Elizabeth, it was no trouble at all.”

 

She ducks her head, embarrassed, turns her attention back to the delicious food. She’s still a bit star-struck by him, even now, two months into rehearsal. He’s playing a brilliant maverick of an artistic director, and she plays the young visiting principal who comes to work at the company for a season who is as sensational as she is determined and idealistic. It’s been refreshing getting into the skin of a young woman who is so driven and confident in her professional life, who wears her passionate nature so intensely, so visibly. Elizabeth still feels very green, but this is the opportunity of a lifetime, and she has no intention of wasting it. 

 

As consummately gentlemanly as he always is, that doesn’t make their non-character interactions, outside of work, any less surreal. Only two years ago, she was a fresh-faced university graduate, who danced and acted because it made her feel alive, and he was already winning awards all over the place. Her friends mooned over his every single promotional poster; she fainted when Jack told her she’d got the role. 

 

And yet he treats her as an equal, doesn’t make her feel any less for being younger and less experienced. They’ve become such good friends in such a short space of time that it terrifies her sometimes. 

 

Then there’s the nature of the film they’re making; they’ve gained an exceptional awareness and knowledge of each other’s physical presences and movements. Their intimacy and chemistry flows seamlessly across the line of actor and character, retaining its intensity whether he’s standing behind her in rehearsal, clothes stuck to his body from exertion, one hand on her waist, the other extending their arms out into a flawless line, her body melting back into his, trembling with effort and exhilaration, or whether they’re walking down the Embankment discussing Pinter and Rattigan and Austen in flapping trench coats on a day off. 

 

She doesn’t know how to define what sort of relationship they have; doesn’t know _if_ he’s looking for something that is beyond platonic, and he never flirts with her - he never flirts with anyone, come to think of it - but she realises his expression is always so completely _open_ with her, in a way that it isn’t with others. 

 

They trust each other. Implicitly. Completely. With anything. With everything.

 

And ultimately, that’s why she called James the night before, rather than anyone else.

 

That doesn’t mean she’s not nervous, though. Her character is so passionate, so open in everything she feels, that Elizabeth knows she’s going to find the romantic scenes difficult to shoot. Not because of James, but because of the expectations of the character. She has to be able to show that same openness, intensity and vulnerability, in a romantic and sexual context. 

 

She’s never done a sex scene before. 

 

And if that weren’t awkward enough - James, she knows, has done them multiple times, in everything from sweeping period epics to intimate arthouse dramas, more often than not as the romantic lead ( _he does angst and heartbreak and longing and vulnerability like no-one else she’s ever seen_ ) - her actual romantic experience is limited. 

 

With Will, well - they may have been childhood sweethearts, but anything more than kissing had scared her. She’d known that the first time for a woman was not necessarily a pleasant experience, and Will had not inspired her with confidence, with his fumbling hands, and fast, heavy breathing. 

 

She may as well admit it to herself: she’s a virgin who has to do sex scenes for this film. 

 

She has got herself into a bit of a fix, but when she’d tried, awkwardly, stutteringly, _(because how else is a conversation on the subject going to look like)_ to explain to Georgiana Fitzgerald’s sharp-eyed intensity, she’d got as far as: “For the sex scenes, I’ve never - ” before always being cut off with a “Everybody says that, love. They’re really not any more difficult than anything else. Complex, perhaps, but what scene isn’t?”

 

And it’s not like she can talk to Jack about that - he’d probably attempt to seduce her if she did.

 

“You’ve been frowning at your plate for the past five minutes, Elizabeth.” James comments lightly, suddenly pulling her out of her thoughts.

 

“I - ” she swallows and bites her lip, looking away, before huffing and telling herself to get over her embarrassment.

 

James is really the only one she can talk to about this - the only one who has some understanding of the situation she faces. She knows he won’t laugh at her for her inexperience, but she’s expecting him to be surprised, and she quite likes this easy understanding they have, this friendship that simmers with this potent attraction that exists between them.

 

“Yes?” He’s looking at her, head slightly tilted, a frown pulling at his eyebrows and his mouth, his green eyes soft with concern. 

 

“It’s - it’s about the sex scenes.” She blurts out suddenly.

 

James’s eyes widen and he reaches out to squeeze her hand gently. “If you’re worried about your being here changing anything; it won’t - you have nothing to be frightened of.”

 

“No, it’s not that - I - I’ve never - ”

 

“It’ll be a closed set, and we’ve got another month of rehearsal before we even begin the shoot - you’ve got time.”

 

She pulls her hand free and fiddles with her cutlery. She doesn’t even want to think about how red her face must be. “It’s not that, either.” She says softly, still avoiding his eyes.

 

“Elizabeth - is - have I - I haven’t made you uncomfortable, have I?” James asks, and there’s a strange not of tension in his voice that makes her gaze fly to his.

 

“No!” she exclaims. “Of course not - of course you haven’t.” She smiles at him, but it’s only when she continues with, “You’ve been a perfect gentleman,” that he visibly relaxes.

 

“Good,” he exhales. “I don’t ever wish to make you feel uncomfortable, whether in rehearsal, on set, or anywhere else.”

 

She inhales shakily - his utter sincerity floors her, makes it difficult for her to breathe. How can he be so bloody _kind_? 

 

“Likewise,” she replies, and she knows it’s not the reply he expects because his breath catches in his throat and a pale pink blush rises on his cheeks. He clears his throat and looks away, in that formal, endearing manner which is _him,_ utterly and completely. Her heart swells with affection in that moment - he’s the best man she’s ever known, and he might be an extraordinary actor, but he’s no less a person than she is, no less vulnerable than her, and it’s that realisation that makes her grit her teeth.

 

She’s being an idiot, a childish little scaredy-cat. “It’s something else.”

 

Deliberately, he places his mug down on the table, rises and extends his hand. She takes it, her small fingers curling around his, and she doesn’t entirely know what to do with the sudden rush of warmth. Gently, he leads her shuffling, blanket wrapped figure through the french doors, across the airy hall into the sitting room. 

 

She folds herself up on one of the cream leather sofas like a little kitten, and he takes a seat on the thick carpet at her feet, crossing his long legs, an action which should be ridiculous, but somehow isn’t, and holds her hands in his. 

 

“Take all the time you need, darling.” He squeezes her fingers with a smile. “We’re in no rush.”

 

“I don’t quite know where to start,” she trembles. 

 

James doesn’t say anything except stroke the backs of her hands, her wrists, with his thumbs, his expression serious, intent, not leaving hers. 

 

“Is it something to do with - Will?” he asks eventually.

 

“I - I suppose, in a way.” She takes a deep breath. “Will and I, we never - you see - ”

 

“Ah.” James sighs. “You’re a virgin, then.”

 

She nods, tense, waiting for his reaction. “Is that - a problem?” she manages.

 

“It’s unexpected,” he replies softly. “But it isn’t something that means we won’t be able to do the scenes.”

 

She laughs a little with shock, with the light-headedness that comes with a sudden release of tension. “You’re not going to suggest I get rip-roaring drunk and shag someone random?”

 

“That sounds like something your agent would do, doesn’t it?” He grins up at her, and her heart stutters just a tad ( _a lot_ ). 

 

“Yes, Jack would,” she laughs. 

 

“But not you, I think.” He considers her gently. 

 

“No.”

 

If she didn’t like the idea of sleeping with Will, why would she like the idea of drunkenly sleeping with a stranger any more?

 

 

* * *

 

 

Neither of them say anything about their sex scene conversation until two days later. They’re talking to Georgiana in a break from one of their dance rehearsals, and the director asks the two of them what attracts their characters to the other so she can start storyboarding the more intimate aspects of the storyline. 

 

Elizabeth chokes on her carrot-spinach-and-ginger juice, completely unprepared for the question. James laughs at her, hand coming down to rub her back until she stops spluttering, and the physical contact, the warmth of his large hand across her spine, changes their dynamic so suddenly, so completely, becoming the kind of caress that makes her want to arch herself and luxuriate into his presence, that her next glance at him is startled in the extreme. He catches it, of course, catches the blush blooming in her cheeks, the melting of her gaze, the exquisite trembling of her frame, and his smile widens almost imperceptibly. 

 

Georgiana’s turned to whisper to one of the ADs about something, so the moment passes unnoticed ( _thank god - Georgiana Fitzgerald is brilliant, but she’s not above manipulating her actors into shattering the actor-character divide without their realising to catch their performances on camera)._

 

Ever the gentleman, he answers first, giving Elizabeth time to compose herself. “He’s attracted to the way she utterly abandons herself in her dancing - there’s a kind of deep, intimate truth there, which fires his imagination, I think. That sense of openness, of selflessness - he sees that though their approaches might be different, they feel very similarly about their art. He recognises a kindred soul.”

 

“Hmmm. And your character, Elizabeth?” 

 

“His presence - yes, how obsessive, how much of a perfectionist he is, but also the way he commands the room, the space, the other people. She’s a little in awe, but she’s not afraid of him. She admires his determination, she sees past the kind of haughty front he presents, to something more vulnerable, more complex - he fascinates her, he intrigues her.”

 

“Yes, yes, we’ve discussed all that already,” Georgiana says dismissively. “Allow me to rephrase: what attracts your characters to each other, physically? What turns them on, physically?”

 

Even James shifts a little in his chair at the bluntness of the question. He doesn’t look at Elizabeth when he answers, in a calm voice, all too aware of the perils of waxing lyrical in Georgiana’s presence. His and Elizabeth’s chemistry is good _(incredible),_ he knows that, their characters feel the same way, but he thinks it’s his and Elizabeth’s decision what exactly they do with it, how they channel it into their roles. 

 

“Her grace - the fluid, natural way she moves, that sense of effortlessness.” He flushes slightly.

 

Georgiana raises a manicured eyebrow.

 

“Does it have to be anything in particular?” Elizabeth asks.

 

The director shrugs nonchalantly. “The more you give me, the easier it’ll be.”

 

Elizabeth’s eyes widen slightly and she swallows. “Er - how gentle he is with her, physically - even when he’s pushing her, with choreography, with the music - everything - any contact is gentle, assured, passionate _(she flushes crimson)_ but gentle. And then - um - his presence.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“What did Georgiana mean by that, do you think?” Elizabeth asks as they sit in James’s library that evening, after dinner. Her co-star lounges in an armchair, idly flicking through some sketches the costume department have sent him for his character. 

 

“She’s blunt with everyone,” he replies, tossing the manila file onto a side table. “But, yes, that was as awkward and uncomfortable for me as it presumably was for you.”

 

“Surely you’ve had to think about, discuss, that kind of thing before for previous films?”

 

“I have,” he agrees. “But never so explicitly.” Of course he’s had to think about it, even have extended conversations with his co-star; but talking to the director - that’s a completely different story. 

 

She twists her fingers in her lap. “Will she be as blunt, during the actual scenes, do you think?”

 

“That hasn’t made you nervous up until this point, though.”

 

“No, but - I know I can dance, I know I can act - but - ”

 

“But you don’t have that same certainty about sex, because it isn’t an experience you’ve had,” he finishes for her.

 

“Yes,” she whispers, ducking her head.

 

“Elizabeth,” James says fiercely, and the sincerity of his tone makes her look up slowly. “Don’t be ashamed - it isn’t anything to be ashamed of in the slightest.”

 

The small smile that curves her lips is his reward. 

 

He considers her carefully, and for some time, observing the sudden relaxation of her body language, her smile, before coming to a decision. 

 

He stands. He offers her his right hand.

 

She looks at it, and then up at his face in confusion. Her lips part and her brow furrows. “What?” she breathes.

 

“I am at your disposal, darling. Whatever you wish to know, to understand, to experience - ” he shrugs “ - whenever you like - I can help you, if you’ll let me. If you wish it. Only if you wish it. You can refuse, and we simply go back to where we were before this conversation.”

 

“That’s - you’re offering to… instruct me?”

 

“Only if you wish it.”

 

“Because we have to do those scenes?” She asks shakily, feeling strangely disappointed. 

 

“Yes,” he replies simply. But then he continues, and his words are less controlled now, less guarded. “But not only that.”

 

“Not only that?” she smiles impishly up at him.

 

He inhales sharply, and the curl of a pleased smile lights up his face. He steps closer to her, and dares extend a hand to tuck a strand of her tawny gold hair behind her ear, and his fingers linger on the whorl of her ear, and down her jawline. She leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut at the aching sweetness of the caress. 

 

“As I think you’ve probably deduced, I am wildly attracted to you, Miss Swann. You have become a dear friend, and I _want_ you. I am in great danger of falling irrevocably under your spell.”

 

Her eyes snap open and she blushes. Violently. She swallows and then deliberately places her hand in his. 

 

Their smiles and breathing are equally exhilarated, equally shaky, and Elizabeth suddenly finds herself firmly in James Norrington’s embrace, his right arm wrapped around her slim waist, his left lightly touching her cheek, his thumb almost but not quite touching her bottom lip.

 

“Only if I wish it?”

 

“Only if you wish it, darling,” James confirms.

 

Elizabeth’s smile widens, and she melts into him, her hands toying with his mahogany hair, brushing the skin of his neck. “I do wish it, James, but only if you wish it too.”

 

His response is to kiss her.

 

She is falling through the sky, soaring effortlessly into a ballet jump, sinking into him. She shivers, trembles. Too much, and not enough. Everything. _Everything._

 

 

* * *

 

 

James and Elizabeth keep their new sense of intimacy to themselves for a few days, not out of any sort of conscious decision, but purely because they’re both so busy in the final run up to the beginning of the shoot - final costume fittings, choreography tweaks, minor line adjustments - that they hardly have time to catch their breaths, to do more than to curl up on the sofa in the evening and share languid kisses.

 

Elizabeth revels in the simplicity of it, the fact that he doesn’t push her for more than she’s ready for, that he derives so much pleasure simply from holding her, kissing her face, her eyes, her lips, hands sliding around her slim waist, fingers idly tracing shivers into her skin. 

 

James glories in the warmth of her feet resting on his thighs as they lounge about, in the fact that whenever he brushes a caress down her arm, drags a single finger down her spine, she no longer tries to hide her reactions. 

 

Her responsiveness drives him insane - but, oh, what a way to go.

 

“I’d like to touch you,” she says one evening. He stops tracing patterns on her arm, fingers hovering above her skin. She’s curled up in his arms, folded into his side after they decided it would be a good idea to put on some music and waltz around the room. 

 

“May I?” she continues, leaning in to him, head pillowed on his shoulder, her lips titled towards his. 

 

“You’re certain?” he asks, his voice far huskier than it should be. She hears it, of course, can practically feel the rumble of his chest, and her smile widens mischievously - and god, has anyone on earth been able to resist the look she now gives him?

 

“Yes.”

 

He can’t stop the fierce, pleased smile that spreads across his face at her words. Pulling her up so they’re both standing _(the sofa seems like far too dangerous an idea at this point),_ his hands come to rest lightly on her waist, and her fingers curl into his shirt. 

 

He bends his head to whisper in her ear. “Take off my shirt, darling.”

 

She shivers - and god, the feel of her - this is _dangerous._ What the hell was he thinking, offering this? Well, if he’s damned himself thus far, he may as well continue.

 

“Slowly,” he continues, as her fingers nimbly rid him of his cufflinks and then start on the buttons. She looks at him, her brow delightfully furrowed, a question in her eyes. “Let yourself enjoy it,” he smirks wickedly. 

 

Shock flits across her face and she swats his arm and he laughs, a warm, rich sound, and the nervous tension leaves them both. The mischievous glint in her eyes has returns, and he waits to see what she’ll do as his shirt slides off his shoulders and falls, ignored, onto the ground.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a curious energy on set on the first day of the shoot; Georgiana Fitzgerald is one of those directors who keeps her cool even when the sky is falling down, but the crew are smiling, joking. Everyone is excited; this isn’t your typical angsty-fluffy dance film where the choreography takes precedence over plot and characterisation. 

 

Elizabeth swings her feet idly, leaning back in her chair, watching the director of photography checking the lighting. The scene they’re shooting is about a third of the way through the film; between her character and James’s and her character’s dance partner, played by an actor she’s worked with before called Dan Millen. They were a brother-sister vampire hunter duo in the last indie she did, and he’s always good fun. 

 

But it’s a complex scene; the three of them are meant to be at the end of their tethers because Dan’s character can’t stand the way James’s character choreographs, and James’s character is frustrated by the singular lack of romantic chemistry between the two dancers. It leads to James’s character choreographing solely with Elizabeth’s when she can’t understand why the two men can’t get on.

 

They’re going to be working on this sequence - ten pages of script - for the next three weeks - and one part of Elizabeth is nervous about how she’s going to hold up. She’s never done a film that’s this physical as well as emotionally intense before. Dan is on his phone - texting his boyfriend Harry, she assumes - but when he realises she’s looking at him he saunters over, collapsing exaggeratedly into the chair next to her.

 

“Having fun, dear leading lady?”

 

“We haven’t started yet,” she scoffs, laughing. 

 

“Still,” he continues, shrugging, “it’s nice to be working with you again.”

 

“You’re just saying that because you want to see if you can beat me at blackjack.” 

 

“What’s this about gambling, Miss Swann?” A voice, dry with amusement, comes from behind them. Elizabeth and Dan whirl around like naughty children.

 

“Oh,” Elizabeth replies nonchalantly, desperately trying to disguise the effect his voice has on her, “I was simply telling Dan that he’s an idiot to believe that he could ever fleece me at blackjack after having spectacularly lost every single one of our games on the set of _Step into the Light_ last year.”

 

“Really?” James drawls. He’s about to sit down when one of the make-up assistants drag him over to the other side of the set where there’s natural light. “See you in a bit,” he tosses out over his shoulder, and Elizabeth just stares after him, as about five people start attacking him with make-up brushes and hair combs.

 

“I would, you know.” Dan comments from her side.

 

“Would what?” she glances sharply at him.

 

“If I weren’t _very_ happy ( _he waggles his eyebrows obscenely_ ) with my dear, dear Harry - and leaving aside the fact that James is quite possibly the straightest person I’ve ever met - ” he breaks off at her expression, a note of genuine confusion and bewilderment in his voice “ - Lizzy, have you _seen_ the man?” 

 

“Ye- _es,_ ” she hedges. 

 

She knows exactly what Dan is talking about, of course. 

 

She also is pretty certain she could never forget the way he tastes and feels ( _not that she’d ever want to, of course, not that they’ve actually done anything that would constitute an actual sexual act - yet)_ but she’s quite happy with the way things are at the moment - that is, keeping what her and James feel for each other to themselves for now, instead of it being gossiped about all over set. He’s also explained to her why he doesn’t want Georgiana finding out and pushing them more than they want in the name of the film. 

 

Dan does also have a ridiculously good point, of course; and that is the fact that James looks obscenely good in his costume.

 

He gets away with not wearing the skin-tight lycra and cotton she and Dan are wearing, but he’s barefoot and in dark grey joggers slung low on his hips and not much else, with ruffled dark hair, and she can only admire the way he moves. She’s pretty certain half the crew are drooling over him already, and it’s only eight-thirty in the morning. 

 

She’s going to be in the same room as a shirtless James Norrington all day for the next three weeks, and she already can’t keep her eyes off him.

 

Dan follows her gaze to where it’s landed on James’s back and snorts.

 

Tough job.    

   

 

  

**Author's Note:**

> There we go - I wanted to write something with more comic elements to it, which is, if not exactly a departure for me, it's more of a rare thing, so I hope it's actually also funny and not just me indulging my strange sense of humour. 
> 
> Until the next time!


End file.
